


Mea Culpa

by devlandiablo



Series: 59-34-8th-Hudson [3]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bdsm etiquette, Edging, Guilt, Hint: You DON'T..., How Do You Solve A Problem Like Matt Murdock?, M/M, Minor original character death (off screen), Restraints, Self-Harm, Sensation Play, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 16:30:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6573622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devlandiablo/pseuds/devlandiablo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man dies in an alley in Hell's Kitchen. Matt does not cope. Frank is left to pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mea Culpa

Frank finds Matt in the safe house three hours later, stripped of his costume, wearing nothing but fleece pants as he huddles on the couch, knees to his chest, hands wrapped over his ankles, curled in on himself. 

Frank breathes out a sigh of relief, putting his coat down on the table by the door. Matt’s head lifts. There is a smear of blood across his jaw, splatter from before. 

He waits as Frank strips off, eyes to Frank’s left, his long fingers white-knuckled as he grips his feet.

With each weapon that plonks on the table, the shush of the holsters and the sheathes, Matt gets tenser. When Frank reaches for his belt, heavy leather and tarnished metal, Matt leans toward him slightly, the corners of his mouth tightening. He can’t make himself ask yet, and Frank gets that. That Matt is here, where Frank can get at him, is progress enough.

“That kind of a night, huh.” It isn’t a question. 

Matt lets go of his ankles and slides off the cushions, onto his knees, his hands coming together behind his back. Frank knows he has his right hand wrapped around his left wrist, settled against the swell of his ass, a position he can keep for hours. Matt keeps his back straight, chest open, but drops his head, chin between his collar bones, bangs falling across his forehead. It makes Frank want to bite him. 

Matt shivers as Frank lets the belt rasp against the loops of his jeans, then gathers it doubled in his right hand. 

“Get up and go to the wall.” 

Matt obeys, standing, hands still behind his back, and turns toward the cinderblock wall to his right. That’s when Frank sees the long stripes already open on Matt’s back, and realizes the blood he’s been smelling is not from the fight before the alley and the beating Matt had delivered after. 

“Stop.” Matt halts, nostrils flaring as Frank drops the belt and the buckle hits the concrete floor. He tenses, but doesn’t shy away, as Frank steps up and catches Matt by his left shoulder, a broad welt hot and slick under his palm. 

“What the fuck is this?” 

Frank recognizes the lash marks, knows exactly what they are, but that they’re on his boy, here and now, is not fucking right. 

“I needed…”

“No.” Frank hears Matt’s teeth click together. Frank wraps his other hand around Matt’s right hip, pressing his thumb into the dried blood smeared from the end of a line into the top of his pajama pants. Matt hisses, his hands between them, but doesn’t move other than to flex his fingers. “You’re not allowed to do shit like this.”

“Frank-” Matt starts, but Frank pivots them back to the couch and shoves Matt down face first into the cushion. 

His knees are in between Matt’s as he follows him down, pinning him so his hips are against the edge of the sofa, the button of Frank’s jeans digging into Matt’s ass as he leans over him, voice low and vicious. “You. Know. Better. Matthew.” Frank looks his boy over, teeth bared, searching out other bruising or marks. “Anything other than these lines?” 

Matt bucks but Frank keeps him down. 

“Anything. Else.” Frank hisses. 

“No, Frank.” Matt’s cheek scratches against the rough material of the sofa, his own blood smeared on the back now that Frank is close enough to make it out against the pattern of dark green and brown plaid. It’s not the first time one of them have bled on this couch, but Murdock damn well knows it isn’t supposed to be by his own fucking hand. 

“Are you sure?” Frank is calm, pushing his anger down so he can be what Matt needs, and right now that’s a flat voice, the “takes no shit” tinge of the Punisher that Matt’s behavior has earned him. 

“I’m sure.” 

Frank leans in close, putting his mouth right up against Matt’s ear. 

“You want punishment?” Matt’s body is tight and tense, waiting for Frank to fuck up. “Then I decide what punishment you deserve.” Matt goes entirely limp under Frank, his breath croaking in his throat, eyes closing, relieved of carrying this burden on his own. Frank nips Matt’s earlobe then pulls back. 

“Stay. Do not move, other than to breathe. Understand?” 

“Yes, Frank.” 

Frank gets up, Matt staying where he’s been put. Frank moves quickly, over to the cabinet where he keeps the red bag, which goes onto the cushion Matt isn’t facing. He lays a hand on the back of Matt’s head and drags him up a few inches by the hair, to be absolutely sure he doesn’t mishear. 

“Color.” 

“Green.” Something shifts under Frank’s skin as he puts Matt’s head back down on the cushions and unzips the bag, pulling out the rope on top. He goes back to kneeling between Matt’s thighs, putting Matt’s hands where he wants them, inner wrists pressed together, hands in gentle fists just above the small of his back, his elbows more sharply angled. He wraps the rope into cuffs quickly, thoroughly, running a loop up to the middle of his back so Frank can add Matt’s arms into the pattern, the rope biting softly into his biceps. Frank checks the fit, noting the time before making the quick release tie off. 

Heavy leather restraints from the bag go around Matt’s boney ankles, chains left to drag, for the moment. Frank stands and pulls Matt back and up and around, moving him into the center of the room where a hook is screwed into a ceiling beam. Frank reaches up for the chain that lives there, already attached to the hook, and pulls it down with a rattle. 

Matt tenses as Frank clips the carbiner to the T of the restraints, then relaxes into the setup, knowing Frank has him and isn’t going to let him hide and lie and keep fucking up. 

Frank keeps a hand on him as he circles around, appraising. Matt isn’t expecting Frank to speak again. 

“You get to make one more decision tonight, Murdock.” He cocks his head, because what else is there for him to decide? A rough hand catches him at the hip as Frank leans in. “If your pants stay on, I don’t fuck you, you get to cum. If your pants come off, I fuck you, you don’t get to cum.” 

He breathes out and lets go. “Pants off, Frank.” 

Frank kisses Matt, roughly, one last kindness, and undoes the drawstring, kneeling down to maneuver Matt’s pants down and over the ankle restraints. Frank pulls up the permanent anchors set into the floor from where they usually lay flush to the floor, and attaches the ankle chains to them one by one, levering Matt’s feet wide. Eventually, his thighs will shake, his muscles burning, but Frank has plans for the time between now and then.

Frank plugs Matt’s ears and gags him, wipes a smear of smell-blocking cream under his nose, rubbing against Matt all the time, his shirt and jeans rough against Matt’s bare skin, and then he steps back. 

Matt tries to sway toward him, the sudden lack of heat and texture making him whine, but the restraints keep him pinned. 

Frank moves toward the couch, Matt’s head following him, and he comes back with a posture collar, a Gates of Hell chastity device, and the mid-sized plug with the multiple knobbly bulges, the one that always makes Matt scream when Frank twists it, bump-bump-bump over his prostate and against the muscle and nerve of his hole. 

The collar goes on so Matt can’t turn his head, then the Gates, before the plug is lubed up and slid in, and Matt does indeed yell, trying to jerk his hips away, but he’s not going anywhere. The plug seated, Frank gives him a minute to adjust, panting, before he continues to decorate his boy. 

Clips on his nipples and down his sides, the insides of his thighs, make pale flesh flush, and from the clips on his balls, Frank hangs a weight, to make Matt whine. He taps it and Matt yelps, before going utterly still. 

When Matt is all decked out with the contents of the bag, Frank lays into his ass with a paddle, until it’s a deep red. Matt grunts with each blow, Frank not bothering to count, the weight swinging from the clip before he pulls it off. Matt shrieks when Frank gets in close in front of him, groin to groin, and reaches around to drag his nails across Matt’s ass, palming hot flesh roughly, one of Frank’s knees shoving up to press against Matt’s balls, carefully cruel, the denim rough on his cock between the metal rings of the Gates. 

Frank gets him to start crying when he takes the mid-weight flogger to his ass and thighs until he’s glowing, little stubborn trickles. 

When Frank changes to a switch and stripes down the back of his calves and up the outside of his thighs, he cries more, until Frank lays one very sharp but light blow against the head of Matt’s cock, and Matt screams and goes limp, the restraints taking his weight as his chest heaves, close to getting where he needs to be.

Frank checks his watch and sees that they’ve been at this for about an hour. Time for the clips to come off.

Each release of the bites at the end and the blood returning causes Matt’s breath to hitch, a whimper behind the gag. The collar comes off as well and his chin drops to his chest, tear tracks on his cheeks so pretty Frank has to lick at them. 

Frank unclips him from the beam line, his ankles still tethered apart, and puts him down onto his knees, pitching him carefully forward onto a cushion grabbed from the couch so his face and chest are safe from the floor. His smarting thighs and still-bound cock though, Frank let scrape. 

Matt’s hips leap under his hands as he jerks back, shoulders twisting as he tries to get leverage to come upright, but Frank presses him closer against the bite of the concrete, one hand in the small of his back and the other on the nape of his neck, until Matt settles and stays, panting heavily through his nose, ears still plugged, the ball of the gag between his lips making Frank’s cock even harder inside his pants. 

Matt is beautiful when he hurts for Frank. 

He rewards Matt with a kiss to his neck, sweaty, pulse rabbit fast beneath Frank’s lips. 

He taps Matt on the hand and his fingers catch Frank’s, squeeze once, and let go. 

Still green. 

Frank smirks and gets back to work on breaking his boy down. 

The Whartenberg wheel makes Matt yelp, writhing, as Frank runs it all over, following it up with a hair brush where Frank turned him red, and a play-safe knife, scraping along the tendons and stretches of muscle until they go soft, as if loosening adhesions. 

Matt is a mess by the time Frank is ready to fuck him. 

When Frank pulls him back onto his knees with an arm around his waist, thighs shaking, his head falls back against Frank’s collarbone, his cock hard in the Gates, chest pink and red when Frank looks down over his shoulder to admire his work. Matt makes a questioning noise, because Frank has stripped off his clothes, and now the hot length of him, from neck to knees, is against Matt’s body, body hair and sweat making his welts sting. 

Frank slides the arm from around his waist up, over Matt’s side and chest, stopping to tweak his nipples cruelly and dig his nails in, before he curls a hand around Matt’s throat. The other hand reaches down between their bodies to grip the handle of the plug and pull it out, as quick as Frank judges is safe. 

Matt screams around the gag, hips bucking as the last knob clears him, cheeks clenching. Frank pulls him back against his chest by the hand at Matt’s throat and slides his other hand around to press against Matt’s belly, over his cock, holding him steady for what’s to come. 

He holds him there, breathing against the side of his neck, fingers pressing broad and mean but so careful against the width of Matt’s throat. He waits until Matt lets him take all his weight, pliant against him, to push the head of his cock against Matt’s hole in a soft kiss. 

The muscle flutters, and with a shove, he’s in. Matt’s head snaps to the right, into his palm, away from Frank’s face, a beautiful anguish twisting his features up, and Frank doesn’t need to see to know it’s fucking art.

He beats his hips against Matt’s ass, pressing in with his hands as his lover writhes, each stroke pushing Frank closer to coming. Matt’s cock is hard in the gates, and he’s whining, crying again, his fingers spasming against Frank’s belly but not snapping as he would if he wanted to stop. 

He drops his hands from Matt’s throat and belly and lever him down onto the cushions, still pressed in tight with his hips, Matt shrieking as the change in angle drags Frank’s cock over his prostate. 

He keeps Matt in place with a hand over the rope that wraps his wrists, other hand clenched in the pillows as he gets in as deep as he can, close and fast and mean, circling his hips, changing the angle to hit all of Matt he can, but Frank doesn’t let himself come yet. 

He bites Matt, high over where his collar will show, laying finger bruises into where the ropes wrap Matt’s biceps, his heart pressed against the knot that holds Matt’s arms back, as he pulls himself out.

He rocks back and up onto his feet, leaving Matt there to shake on the concrete, sobbing into the rough plaid, thigh and fingers twitching. Still no snaps. 

Frank is quick, to bring what he needs to tend to the wounds he’s caused and what Matt did to himself before Frank ever arrived, but he’s not done with hurting Matt yet. He undoes the ankle restraints and lets them drop, then hauls Matt up by his hips, catching him when he stumbles, huddling into Frank’s body, desperate for contact. 

He takes Matt back over to the couch and sits down, pulling Matt into his lap, his face against Frank’s chest, the strap and ball of the gag poking Frank. He reaches down and taps Matt’s knees, letting him know what he wants, and Matt shuffles into his lap so he’s entirely cradled there, trustingly. 

Frank is still hard, and goes in easy when he brings Mat down on him. Matt gasps, shakes, keens, as Frank’s hips pitch up. With his feet flat against the floor and his arms wrapped around Matt and keeping him close with his fist clenched around the harness knot, Frank has the leverage to break his lover down with one of Matt’s favorite positions. It's very different when Matt can't use his hands for leverage on the back of the sofa, though. 

Three more times Frank pulls back from coming, until Matt is flat out sobbing and wailing, trying to get away from Frank’s cock, threatening to send himself over backwards where he’d crack his head on the floor if Frank let him go. 

He checks his watch again, and it’s been two hours since he wrapped the rope into a cuff around Matt's wrists and bound his arms back. 

Still pressed in hot and hard and close, he checks Matt’s hands. He wedges a finger into Matt's palm and Matt squeezes twice, very clearly, and holds on. 

Frank sits up and presses a kiss to Matt’s forehead before he pulls Matt off his lap and slides him so he’s laying face down over Frank’s thighs. The knot comes undone quickly, Frank keeping Matt’s arms from falling when the rope is no longer in place to support them, massaging the lax muscles and holding them lightly to the small of his back so they don’t move too much too fast and jar him.

The stripes are starting to darken at the edges, as are the bruises Frank painted on Matt. 

The ear plugs come out, but the gag stays in. 

Frank takes a deep breath and hurts Matt, one last time. 

“It wasn’t your fault, Matty.” 

Matt heaves against Frank’s hands, but Frank keeps him from going anywhere, even though he kicks and scrambles and yells. He finally goes limp, breaking down into clinging sobs when Frank calls him his good boy, pets his hair and drags the blanket from the back of the couch over him.

The sun starts to rise, and Frank lets Matt sleep stretched the length of the sofa, belly down over Frank’s thighs, like a cat, still gagged and gated. 

It has been seven hours, and seventeen years, since the alley. 

(So I may, just may mind you, have a Thing about Frank tying Matt up/down and fucking him in some kind of suspension gear, and biting him, and being the best Dom he can be… That’s not a problem, is it? Also, as always, I’m not a doctor or anything, so please don’t take anything you read as 100% realistic, since this is RACK (Risk Aware Consensual Kink) with a Sub who isn’t the best about taking care of himself and it’s FICTION. In particular, with the bondage bit, how long would be safe to keep Matt’s hands restrained like that? IDK for sure, but two hours is probably pushing it. So, kinksters, play safe and check in often and DON’T BE LIKE MATT MURDOCK! We probably need “What Would Matt Murdock NOT Do” buttons in this dumpster…)


End file.
